Tracee Atanda-Owo never planned to be an artist. In fact, the singer who goes by OWO professionally, was perfectly happy as a songwriter until she could no longer ignore the questions from friends, label executives and colleagues— all wondering why a natural-born performer was running away from the stage.

Born to two hip Nigerian parents and raised in Maryland, OWO spent her childhood writing poetry, dancing in church and being a self-described “quiet-quirky-artist girl.” Concerned about balancing education with creative pursuits, she chose to attend college in New York City. There, OWO did the work— explored the breadth of her musical palette, soaked up the city’s energy, established herself as a songwriter, and when she was well and ready, transitioned into a recording artist.

While OWO may never have scribbled “become a global singing sensation” in her teenage diary, now that the moment has presented itself, she doesn’t plan on leaving until her presence is felt. Fresh off the heels of a new EP titled SEEDs and a recent move to Atlanta, AMAKA o caught up with the multi-hyphenate artist on her latest EP, the foundations of her sound, self-care, and finding her voice. 

What is inspiring you lately?

It's weird. In New York, all the things that created the hustle and bustle of the city inspired me but now, the peace of Atlanta kind of inspires me. The slower pace of the South is really inspiring, the nature, all those things.

The pandemic slowed things down and everyone had to find their tranquillity and peace. How was that for you as a creative? Did the solitude bring about a different kind of music?

Initially, it was very nerve-racking. Living in New York City, you have that go-go-go mentality. Then everything stopped and we had no control over when everything would start again. At first, I couldn't create anything. In terms of making music, I was in a very, “what's going on in the world” type place. I also wanted to give myself grace, not feeling like I had to create because this was a weird time that none of us has ever experienced. It's okay to just be regular, just chill.

As Black women, African women, Nigerian women, it can feel like you need to be constantly working. What does self-care look like for you?

Self-care is something I'm still learning. I think it's fair to say that because I'm not naturally a person who knows what to do with idle time. I look at the internet and it's like “self-care this” but let's talk about people who are trying to learn because our natural habits don't really promote self-care! But I've been doing more manicures, I've been making sure I try to get outside at least once a day and being in nature more.

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Do you have a morning routine?

I do. I wake up and the first thing I do is say, “Thank you, God. Period. We're up! We're here!” And then I meditate for 10 minutes. Meditation is new for me so doing guided meditation has worked better because it tells me what to say. After I meditate, I have my affirmations that I say every single day. That's changed my life because I would say it even when I didn't have it and now I can say “Wow, you are now having those things that you've been saying every day.” I just constantly speak those things to myself and then I drink green tea.

Your stage name is very mysterious. You could be a band or a solo act. Was that intentional?

It was super intentional. Number one, it's also part of my last name. It's not really tied to gender or tied to a person or persons. I love that because I feel like everyone should want to listen to what I'm making. I don't feel like it's necessarily for a specific type of person. Especially as a woman in music, having a name that is not defined by either masculine or feminine, it's just defined as it is.

Is it owó as in Yoruba for money or ọwọ as in hand?

[Laughs] I like money, so it's like money. I always talked to my dad about the origins of our name because people are always like really?

I read somewhere that your family has origins in Brazil. Was your family one of those that returned to Lagos in the early 19th century post-slavery?

Yes, on my mother’s side. My great grandmother was one of the families that arrived in Lagos. I love to tell people this because they realize how big the diaspora is. And there's a lot of families like this from Brazil who also came back to Nigeria.

We can often think of the diaspora as this linear thing, beginning in Africa and ending in the West. But there’s a back and forth, we’ve always been in conversation. Is that something you try and bring into your music? That diasporic legacy of your family?

Absolutely, because it's so much a part of me. When you experience life a bit, you realize you are just a combination of many things. I'm more and more drawn to those combinations of things that make me who I am. I think duality is a really beautiful thing, especially as a first-generation child in America. I try to use it a lot in terms of the music. From the visuals to people I work with, I really try to make it a part of the identity.

What was growing up in an African immigrant hub like the DMV area like?

There's a huge Nigerian community in that area; it's very condensed. I think that was great because as much as people in elementary school are like, “what are you eating? It smells weird,” when you go to church on Sunday, we’re all the same. You always had that connection to the culture.

Speaking of DMV culture, does Go-Go music and its emphasis on live instrumentation influence your stage shows?

Yeah, it really does. Drums are super key to my stage show and it's something that is just natural to me. I didn’t realize that I was internalizing these things. My music is always about the rhythm and how I want to portray and express this rhythm. So definitely, Go-Go was a heavy inspiration and also just being Nigerian.

A song off your new EP titled Home talks about visiting Nigeria. How was that experience?

Immediately I got back I was like, “this is home.” Period. I understood what it means to be in a place where you don't feel like you're a visitor. I have a rebellious tendency so I was going out and my mother will be like “Are you going out?” and I’ll be like “Yes! I have to!” We went to the club, we went to the parties, we went to gatherings, we were just out and I was like, wow, “I feel like I'm home.” Even though some people may be like, “Americanah.” It's fine, I own that term because it's partially what I am, right?

When did you write your first song?

I was very young. I didn't have a producer or anything, I just used beats that I got off the internet. I don't think it was great personally but at the same time, it was me. And I'm grateful I now have the skill of taking initiative. Not saying “because I don't have a beat I can't write a song.” This is not going to be your only song. You just gotta do it so that you get better and do the next one.

You describe your music as Afro-electro R&B. How did you land on the term?

I feel like because the world has opened up so much, we all listen to everything. It was my way of saying take a listen and you'll see all of these elements in the music. It's all those things but it's definitely a fusion. When you're Nigerian they automatically put you in the Afrobeats box which is not bad because Afrobeats is amazing. But I'm an artist who makes music inspired by these elements. When you hear Frank Ocean, he's not a traditional R&B artist, he's just Frank Ocean. That’s what I wanted. This is just what I make.  

You clearly have a keen interest in researching and tracing your musical lineage. How did that come about?

I am a researcher. That's what I do. One of my favourite things to do is watch documentaries. I like learning and it's helpful as an artist because you realize they've been through this before. If you research and work hard, even if you get to five percent of Michael Jackson’s level, you're doing amazing. My dad was heavy into Fela [Kuti]. When I was younger, I was like, “this song is 16 minutes. Why is he saying the same thing over?” And my dad would sit me down and say exactly what he's talking about. He would make me listen to Bob Marley and give me the whole story of “I Shot the Sheriff.” When you hear the stories of people you consider the greats, you just don't feel as alone.

What five albums would you say are your foundation as an artist?

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When you think about artists like Fela and who can be considered a great, do you feel pressure to write “socially conscious” music?

I did do a song on my last EP called “Lucy” during the height of the shootings because I was just tired that day. It was my interpretation of it. I always want it to be my interpretation of what I feel. But people still get heartbroken every day, people are still grinding every day, people are experiencing fear and doubt every day, people are still trying to make it every day and I think it's all necessary. “Party music” is just as necessary as “conscious music.” The spectrum of emotions we face are not linear. I don't feel pressure but as a person of colour I'm like that person that got killed could be anyone's little brother. Even with the #EndSARS movement. I wasn't on the ground in Nigeria at the time but those are my cousins. That's me if my mother and my father didn't come to America when they did. My spirit will not allow me to sit here and do nothing.

It's definitely all connected. Your EP features snippets of conversations about the importance of staying connected to the continent, how did that come about?

I did not plan it at all. I just did interviews with a bunch of elders and I picked the ones that would kind of relate to what I want to talk about on this particular EP. The first interlude is my uncle and the last voice is my dad.

The project feels very personal at times. “Don’t Leave” for example, sounds like a diary entry. How do you tap into that level of vulnerability?

I love that track so much. That track encapsulated a moment, how I felt specifically that day. I've learned the power of vulnerability and I feel like the more open and vulnerable I am, the more I can observe other situations and interpret in a way people connect to. I love those types of experiences when it comes to music, like Erykah Badu’s “Didn’t Cha Know.” That song till this day can sometimes make me choke up because I remember how I was when I first heard it. For me as a songwriter, it's the highest honour— I was in the studio that day feeling that and you felt it too. It's the simplest things that resonate the most.

The visuals for “Don’t Leave” are particularly soft and feminine. What was the creative strategy behind that?

Everything was shot on film and we just wanted to highlight the shapes, the forms and how everything moved. It was a vibe and I'm glad that with the help of the creative team, I believe we executed flawlessly. I also wanted to capture the softness of being a Black woman. I always say I am not Superwoman. I look like Superwoman but I have emotions, I am human, don't treat me like I am just a piece of iron. I'm a strong Black woman and I'm also a vulnerable Black woman. I have feelings, I can get hurt too. But these are things I have had to come into. I was never like this before.

This isn't your first EP but what moment in your artistic journey would you say it represents?

It's very definitive. When you listen, you’ll go, “she’s telling you where she comes from, she's telling you what inspires her, she's telling you what she's gone through.” I tried to talk about all the stuff I went through to get to a place where I discovered, okay, you need to connect back to yourself. And that's what the whole journey was about. I'm proud of that.

Now that you’ve defined who you are, where do you want the next chapter of your career to take you?

To a Grammy? As long as we get there.

This interview has been edited for brevity and clarity.